Come With Us Now on a Journey Through Time and Space
by Kennilworthy Thisp
Summary: A stranger arrives in Knockturn Alley. With no memory of his identity he is the unknowing agent of a terrible power. If he can regain what he has lost he faces an impossible task: change the past to save the future. Can he alter the path of a once Noble House? AU, no pairings planned.
1. Chapter 1 - Arrival

**Come With Us Now on a Journey Through Time and Space**

**Chapter One – Arrival**

Several sheets of heavy rain fell with abrupt suddenness through the deserted alley located deep within the Wizarding district known as Knockturn Alley, before being banished by a swift and resounding thunderclap. This was of some note given that it had heretofore been a warm summer evening in August, the heat of the day still baked into the poorly maintained cobble-stoned street and the half-timbered walls of the buildings that made up the walls of the alley itself.

Following the boom of the thunder, the figure of a man appeared, hunched forward clutching his abdomen before falling to his knees. Perhaps twenty-five, with black hair unkempt and filthy along with his face and hands – these being the only parts of his skin visible – and clad in a black cloth coat so enormous on his not bulky frame that it obscured both the rest of his clothes and any wounds he might be suffering from. Given the whiteness of his face and the way he was favouring his abdomen, it would be safe to assume that the stranger was suffering from wounds both numerous and serious.

After a moment of unsteadiness he fell forward, his face turned to one side.

Augustus Bloom was what many would describe as an excessively corpulent man, if they even bothered to phrase themselves so politely. He was tall, well over six feet, and walked with a pronounced limp in his left leg.

His occupation was that of a back-alley Healer, reduced to fixing up those too poor or suspicious to approach St. Mungo's, the premier hospital in Wizarding Britain, as well as those who for various reasons wanted to avoid the notice of the authorities. Given that entrance to St. Mungo's bearing certain kinds of injuries was guaranteed to arouse suspicion, and was required by Ministry law to be reported to the Aurors, Augustus Bloom's services were often in high demand.

The term Knockturn Alley was something of a misnomer, in the sense that it was not nearly as small a place as you would associate in your mind with the term "alley". In reality it was the slum of Wizarding Britain, and although the areas near to the entrance of Diagon Alley were home to the shops catering to a Darker sort of customer, most of the rest of the district was made up of whorehouses, taverns and dilapidated housing. If Diagon Alley was where the well-to-do and upstanding citizens of Wizarding Britain lived, worked and shopped, then Knockturn Alley was where you went when chance and fate had thrown up in your coin purse and you were left with little else.

Bloom was passing near the mouth of the alley when the thunderclap split the air of that part of Knockturn Alley, on his way home from a long day tending to what he liked to call in the privacy of his own head the "desperate unwashed masses". This included such maladies from toothache or bad joints and extended all the way to curse wounds and missing limbs.

Upon hearing the thunderclap, rightly curious as to what might cause such an unseasonal disturbance, Bloom approached the alley with some caution. He peered around the building at the mouth of the alley – a boarded up house that had seen far better days, if not centuries – just in time to see the wounded stranger fall face-first into the slightly sodden refuse that littered the area. He approached the stranger, thinking that he might have valuables of some kind on his person, and as he turned him over to check his pockets he noticed that the stranger had one eye cracked open and a strange, almost ominous looking wand pointed at his admittedly ample stomach.

As he heard the stranger's whispered incantation, Augustus Bloom had just enough time to think, _Oh shit_, before a soft pink fog sublimated his consciousness.

'_Imperio!_'

* * *

After directing Bloom to cast a Disillusionment Charm on the both of them, and to cast _mobilicorpus_ on him to levitate him carefully back to his flat, unseen. The twenty-minute journey allowed the stranger some opportunity to assess his situation uninterrupted. The first discovery he made was the most unsettling; the instinctive knowledge of self that all people carry unthinkingly in their mental pockets was missing. _What is my name_? He thought, but no answer was forthcoming. _Where am I?_ Was the next, and the answer of Knockturn Alley drifted into focus with a slow dripping sensation. Realising that the sensation of his thoughts moving like thick treacle was probably the result of a concussion, judging by the large lump on his forehead, he resolved to hold further attempts at self re-discovery until he could secure some kind of medical attention.

Upon arriving invisibly at the home of Augustus Bloom, a flat in a tall townhouse slowly succumbing to years of neglect and a combination of mould and woodworm. The stranger directed Bloom to deposit him on his sofa and fetch him a glass of water.

'Tell me your name,' asked the stranger, after taking a sip of water.

'Augustus Bloom, back-alley Healer of ill repute,' said Bloom. The curious thing about the Imperius Curse was that it didn't completely override the mind of the target. It was more that it made the target of the curse completely malleable to suggestion, except in the case of a person with a powerful will. In this case, the sardonic sense of humour belonging to Augustus Bloom shone through, regardless of the stranger holding him under the Imperius Curse.

The stranger was lying on the sofa, taking shallow breaths around the pain of his wounds. 'You're a Healer? Can you fix me up?'

Bloom complied, pulling his wand from the right sleeve of his robes and began to cast diagnostic spells. 'You have lost a lot of blood, but your outer robe is blocking most of my diagnostic spells. I will need to fetch you a Blood-Replenishing Potion.'

The stranger grimaced at the thought of the amount of movement necessary to remove the large and bulky coat that he wore. 'You'll need to help me – I'm not exactly capable of my full range of movement at the moment.' Bloom complied with the order. Once the outer robe, or coat, as it was in this case. Wizards were notoriously ignorant of Muggle clothing; especially pure-blooded wizards like Augustus Bloom appeared to be. 'Fetch your Blood-Replenishing Potion,' directed the stranger.

Once Bloom had returned and the stranger had taken the potion, Bloom was able to ascertain the extent of the stranger's injuries. As he performed the spells the first flickers of genuine emotion crossed his face. 'You will need to go to St. Mungo's. I cannot heal this,' he said, some small amount of horror tingeing his voice.

The stranger sighed in frustration, having suspected he would have to go there all along. 'Stabilise my condition as much as you can for transport. I'm afraid you will have to float me to St. Mungo's.' As Bloom got to work fixing him up, the stranger took a moment to catalogue his assets. His wand, which now he took the time to look at it, looked slightly odd, although he couldn't quantify _why_ that was. His coat, which was much too big for his frame and covered in what a distant fog-shrouded island of his memory supplied as Elder Futhark runes. Within one of the pockets was the unmistakable shape of a Wizard's trunk under the influence of a Shrinking Charm. As he considered his possessions he felt a strange thought bubble up from within his subconscious, _hide these, not safe_.

'We will exchange wands once you have finished what healing you can,' said the stranger, turning his attention once more to Augustus Bloom. 'You will take my wand, my coat and the shrunken trunk within its pocket and place them beneath the floorboards of this room.'

Once Bloom has hidden the stranger's meagre possessions, the stranger cast a Repelling Charm over the hidden stash, followed by Disillusionment Charms over the both of them and ordered Bloom to transport him to a secluded spot near the street entrance of St. Mungo's, then returned his wand.

As the stranger's injuries were too serious for either side-along apparition or travel by floo to be an option, the stranger was left facing a long float through Muggle London courtesy of his new associate and a _mobilicorpus_.

Upon arriving at St. Mungo's, the stranger directed Bloom to set him gently on the ground and hand him his wand. '_Obliviate_,' whispered the stranger. The deft subtlety with which her applied the Memory Charm was in direct contrast to the brute force approach he had taken with the Imperius Curse. In the case of the Imperius Curse, the stranger hadn't wanted much, if any, of Augustus Bloom's personality to be visible through the effects of the curse. He needed an automaton, someone to quickly and efficiently respond to orders with the minimum of fuss. With the Memory Charm a softer approach was required. Augustus Bloom would need to forget ever meeting the stranger, which necessitated implanting a memory of travelling home without incident. The stranger also implanted a response to receiving a code word. When Bloom received an owled note with the words "Wedge Antilles invites you to his birthday party" he would be compelled to take the stranger's possessions to a dead letter drop in Muggle London.

After cancelling the Disillusionment Charms, after checking they were out of sight of any passing pedestrians, the stranger handed bloom back his wand and ordered him to remove the stabilisation spells to avoid the suspicion he might receive for admitting himself to St. Mungo's after obviously receiving medical attention. Given that St. Mungo's was the only hospital in Wizarding Britain, admitting yourself to its hallowed halls having already received medical attention was tantamount to declaring a connection of some kind to the criminal element. Once done, the stranger sent Augustus Bloom on his way and entered the hospital.

* * *

Healer-in-Charge Reynard Abbott, Head of one of the wards spell damage wards on the fourth floor, was a Healer typical to the venerable institution of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies cut the typical figure of a respectable pure-blooded wizard of good family. His manner of dress, what little you could see of it under the lime green uniform robes of a healer were of good quality. He prided himself on keeping true to the image of the stoic Englishman immortalised by the poets Henley and Kipling; always calm and unflappable about his business. However, the events of the day had served to puncture his aura of unflappable competency.

It had started normally enough; he had gone about his business for much of the day. It was only as his shift had ended and he was heading home for the day that events had taken a turn for the strange. A man had entered the hospital just as he was heading for the fireplaces situated in the entrance hall of the hospital. Abbott had initially dismissed him as beneath notice until the stranger had staggered forward, retching blood and clutching his stomach. It wasn't this that unsettled him so; no, it was what came later that knocked him for six. Once he had him stabilised on a stretcher and carted up to the fourth floor, Abbott began a deep diagnostic programme on the stranger. Glowing words appeared in the air beside the hospital bed holding the stranger.

A litany of injuries, ranging from malnutrition to badly set broken bones. When the list extended to exposure to the a basilisk bite, from exposure to the Unforgivables to more spell damage, Abbott's face lost all colour and only the hurried conjuration of a bucket saved his shoes from being splashed with vomit. By all rights the man on the bed in front of him should be dead.

He stood in front of the bed for what felt like forever staring at the motionless grey figure in front of him, only the slight rise and fall of his chest betraying any signs of life. Eventually he conjured a chair and collapsed into it.

* * *

'Tell me your name, lad.'

The words reverberated through his head, tumbling head over heels, knocking loose all manner of thoughts and feelings. With a terrible clarity he knew who he was, where he was, what he'd done and everything in between. _Oh shit_, he thought, _this is just fucking great_. Some instinct learned long ago warned him that giving his real name was perhaps a bad idea. He coughed wretchedly around his real name before swallowing and answering, 'Edward Black'.

Healer Abbott started up in the conjured chair he had been sitting in all night. 'What?' he spluttered, 'Black? One of _those_ Blacks?' A look of incomprehension stole over his face, causing his forehead to wrinkle. 'Really?'

The newly revealed Edward Black quirked a tired eyebrow before saying, 'If by that you mean the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black then yes, I suppose I am. Why do you seem so surprised?'

'No reason, other than I'm acquainted with Arcturus Black and most of your family – he's on the Trust Board, you see and I don't recall ever hearing about anyone in your family named Edward.'

Edward slumped even further into his pillows at this. 'I - well, can't elaborate further at the moment. It's a family matter.'

Abbott made a humming noise to himself before saying, 'Well, I suppose it can wait until you're well enough for visitors, at least. I'll contact Arcturus about you when it's time.' He gave a firm nod before continuing, 'You should rest, young man. You have a great deal of healing ahead of you.'

With that Healer Abbott left Edward's room, leaving him to his thoughts. _So,_ he thought to himself in the sudden quiet, _my name is Harry Potter_.

**Author's Note**

The runes inscribed on the now-revealed Harry Potter's enormous coat will have some significance to come, so be warned; here be McGuffins.

When referencing the Poets Henley and Kipling, I'm talking about William Ernest Henley's poem _Invictus_ and Rudyard Kipling's poem _If_. If ever you wanted a window into the mind-set of the stoic Victorian gentleman then look no further. I've read in many places about how Wizarding society is supposed to mirror the Victorian one, and to my mind it seems at least a moderately useful analogue.

Before you review telling me how awful at this I am, I would like to say something first: I've not written any fiction of any seriousness in about seven years, and even when I did it was never anything of this length. Please be gentle.

K. Thisp (Monday 29th July, 2013)


	2. Chapter 2 - Deceit

**Come With Us Now on a Journey Through Time and Space**

**Disclaimer**:

I don't own anything that looks remotely like Harry Potter. You're all shocked, I can tell.

**Chapter Two – Deceit**

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was not what you would expect of a modern medical establishment in the Muggle world. Founded in the 18th century by a coalition of philanthropic members of the Wizengamot it was the first hospital of it's kind and remains the only hospital in Wizarding Britain. A towering redbrick edifice of the Muggle Georgian style four storeys tall it sits surrounded by elaborate gardens and lies hidden within folded wizard-space in the London Borough of Islington – hidden by necessity as the pleasure gardens and agricultural land around it was swallowed by the inexorable urban expansion of Muggle London in the 19th century.

The gardens of St. Mungo's weren't immediately visible to the casual visitor to the hospital, and generally were reserved for the rehabilitation of long-term patients. While not seen by many, the mix of magical and mundane flora was the site of many of the hospital's fund-raising events. Once a visitor had bypassed the drab Muggle-repelling exterior that served as the portal to the almost-pocket dimension that the hospital inhabited they found themselves in a large hall, enlarged by magic, that held the waiting area and the elevators to the differing wards.

Harry Potter, known in this time and place as Edward Black, found himself in one of the smaller sub-wards of the Spell Damage ward on the fourth floor. The room was empty apart from him. The room itself was typical of the hospital, with the walls and ceiling covered in a brown porcelain tile, and the floors made of smooth flagstones. Clearly to the Board of Trustees the concept of redecorating a décor that was clearly from the early 19th century was not a sensible expenditure, especially when magic and house-elves could keep the appointments in almost pristine condition.

The room was lit from only one window, but the crystals clustered on the ceiling provided a little more light than he considered normal. Compared to Muggle hospitals these beds were almost opulent, even if the sheets were a shade of green more commonly associated with the inside of a troll's dirty nostril. Harry was currently sitting propped against two of the squishiest, most over stuffed pillows he had ever encountered and staring with a certain amount of shock at the _Daily Prophet_ in front of him. It was laid on his lap, resting with seeming innocence against the faded dull green of his bed sheet. He scowled at it, reading the date printed at the top of the front page. "October 9th 1965" the black words declared traitorously. 'What did I ever do to you, you rotten bastard,' he growled.

From what the nurses had told him, Harry had been in the past for little over a week now. Throwing the newspaper onto his side table he returned to the only thing he had to fill the dull stretches of time between meals and falling asleep. He let himself slide back into the meditative state that was crucial to the practice of Occlumency, using it to catalogue and sort his recovered memories. This use of the defensive mind art was really the initial stage of defending one's mind. To be able to keep a skilled Legilimens from sensitive memories the Occlumens must be able to categorise his memories and build a mind palace where each memory is given an absolute reference point. Once this has been achieved the Occlumens can build a partition over certain memories, and in the case of attack by a Legilimens, offer up false or altered memories as a defence.

Time travel was the only explanation that explained the dichotomy between his recovered memories and the very physical newspaper resting against his legs. It would warrant careful action on his part, depending on the method of time-travel used, to avoid massively altering the world as he was aware of it – after all, time travel was only advantageous if the world he found himself in had some relation to the events he knew. _Ok Harry,_ he thought, _play it cool_. He knew that to be revealed as a time traveller would likely result in being closeted deep within the Department of Ministries and squeezed of all his knowledge of the future like a particularly fat, sodden sponge. Unfortunately, given his second-hand knowledge of the personality and disposition of Arcturus Black, he knew that he would have to reveal at least some part of the truth to placate the man.

* * *

Any further introspection on his part was interrupted by a knock on the door. It opened to reveal the bearded face of Reynard Abbott. 'Good day Mr Black, how are you faring?'

_You're Edward Black now, Harry,_ he thought, _you've got to stop thinking of yourself as Harry Potter._ It was surprisingly easy for him to sublimate his identity behind a fake, which made him suspect that among the still-hidden portion of his memories was a professional familiarity with this sort of thing. He shook his head to banish further introspection before replying with a smile, 'I'm certainly feeling better than when we first met, Healer Abbott.'

Abbott came all the way into the room. 'You are looking better.' He removed his wand from its holster and cast an abbreviated diagnostic charm. 'Almost all the spell damage is cured, as well as the ill-set breaks to your left arm and legs.' He made a humming noise of disapproval before continuing, 'you really ought to take better care of yourself, young man.'

Edward chuckled, 'A subject on which I agree wholeheartedly. Hopefully any new arrangements come with a distinct lessoning in the amount of danger involved.'

'That's not the same thing at all, and what's more you know it!' The Healer gave an amused frown, before continuing, 'I do have a piece of good news for you; not only have I contacted Arcturus on your behalf but I deem you recovered enough to receive visitors. He's waiting in the reception area if you're feeling up to it.'

'By all means, send him up,' Edward replied, 'it would be good to have visitors.'

Abbott smiled in farewell to Edward before taking his leave.

* * *

'You at least resemble a Black, for an imposter.'

Edward looked towards the door, taking in the appearance of his newest guest. Lord Arcturus Black was tall, well over six feet, and possessed the dark hair and pale eyes that were the hallmark of the family. His eyes were cold and unblinking and his body language stiff and unyielding. Edward was very much aware of the absence of his wand from his hand and the tip of a wand visible peeping from the sleeve of Lord Black.

'Hullo, Arcturus.' Even as he said it, he knew he'd made a mistake. Irreverence had ever been a problem of his, and while it could be forgiven more easily forty years from now, Lord Black's response proved that in 1965 this was not the case.

Arcturus' body language became even stiffer, if that was possible as he drew himself up with all the affronted pride of a man standing at the pinnacle of power in his society. Arcturus Black was also Lord Black, patriarch of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The head of the family was known within wider Wizarding society as "the Black", a paragon of traditional pureblood values and acknowledged as one of the leading figures of the traditionalist faction of the Wizengamot. 'You will remember your position and circumstance, boy,' he said, his voice as cold as ice, 'or you will be reminded of the consequences of impersonating a member of my family.'

'If it pleases _my lord Black_, I will explain,' said Edward, stressing the title slightly in apology. He took a deep breath and shifted slightly on the bed, using the distraction to gain a moment to think. His mistake could be costly, as it had turned an Arcturus who was distrustful but willing to hear an explanation into an Arcturus that was affronted and hostile. Clearly Arcturus wasn't going to be put off by any dissembling on his part, so some portion of the truth would need to be revealed; that he was a time traveller. Hopefully it would shock Arcturus enough that he would accept his admittedly patchy explanation on his presence here. 'You would be well served, my lord, by casting privacy wards. What I have to tell you is sensitive in the extreme.

'It's quite simple, I _am_ a member of your family,' he said, seeing that Arcturus had grudgingly complied. The head of the Black family made a noise of disbelief. ''The crux of the problem is that I won't be born for some time. I was born on the thirty-first of July to your grandson Sirius Orion Black.' It was only a partial truth; Harry Potter had become Edward Black upon the completion of a blood adoption ritual at Gringotts. It built upon his blood connection to Sirius through his grandmother Dorea and bound the two of them closely together by their magic and their blood. It left Harry looking like a Black rather than a Potter. His green eyes lightened, better filling the norm for members of his new family whilst his face gained a more aristocratic bent, his shoulders broadened, and his hair lost its unruliness. He swiftly cast off his birth identity, realising that here was a perfect opportunity at a quieter life.

Arcturus stood transfixed, struck as if by a thunderbolt. Pale faced and shaking, he barely managed to conjure a chair to fall into in time before he collapsed from shock. 'You're a time traveller?'

Edward couldn't keep a snort of laughter from escaping. 'You see now, I hope, why I insisted on a privacy ward.' He paused, before continuing, 'I am willing to swear an Oath by Merlin that what I tell you is true.' Seeing Arcturus' nod, he reached across to grab his wand from his bedside table and intoned the oath. 'By Merlin's Bond I so invoke, by my life and magic that these words I speak are true.' There was a flash of golden light, emanating from the tip of Edward's wand that travelled down the length in a swirling golden cascade. It passed from the grip of his wand to his fingers and from there the length and breadth of his body. Swearing and oath to Merlin meant raising your wand and pledging your magic – and in this case your life – to Merlin. Merlin, the almost mythical figure was seen as the font and father of British Magic and the penalties for dishonesty were draconian. The gold light issued from the tip of his wand was the visual proof that his life and magic were not forfeit.

Arcturus started in his seat. To invoke Merlin in a magical oath was the ultimate demonstration of honesty and faith. Arcturus saw at this point that he had two choices, accept Edward into his family or report him to the Ministry and see him disappear forever into the bowels of the Department of Ministries. One thing stayed his hand, and it was the unofficial motto of his family: family first, above all others. 'We will need some sort of story to explain your sudden appearance amongst the family.' He said.

'Tell me, Great-Grandfather, do you remember your cousin Marius?'

* * *

'You mean my cousin Marius the squib? Disowned due to being a squib, burnt from the family tapestry and exiled from England, that cousin Marius?' It was clear that Arcturus could hardly believe his ears. 'Surely you can't be suggesting that I allow the supposed son of a squib and a muggle to re-join the family. You and I know that you are the pure-blooded issue of my grandson Sirius but such a move could only be construed as weakness on my part by the rest of the family, and I'd likely be dead within the year.' It was well known that the Black family as a whole didn't live as long as other wizards. This wasn't down to inbreeding or some other congenital problem, rather that family politics were often resolved on the point of a wand. Edward had often heard Sirius state that comparing the Black family to a nest of vipers was an insult to vipers everywhere.

'It's not quite as bad as all that,' replied Edward, 'Marius' story is as follows: upon being disowned by your uncle Cygnus, he was placed in a muggle orphanage on the outskirts of Munich in Bavaria – which for a family like ours was remarkably kindhearted of him. Marius attended school, before managing to convince a shopkeeper in the magical district of Munich to allow him to work in his shop moving merchandise and restocking shelves. It wasn't much of a job but it's a sign of how liberal they are in Magical Bavaria that a squib was employed at all. It was there that young Marius met a muggleborn Witch and fell in love, having one son named Edward in July of 1940. He was a wizard, but met his unfortunate end, along with his parents in the troubles with Grindlewald. We're the same age and as far as anyone knows he could be alive, given that no records actually exist of his death.'

The original Edward and his parents had disappeared into the bureaucratic black hole caused by the rise of Grindlewald, and likely a shallow mass grave as the dark wizard started his crusade of purification. Unlike Muggle Germany, Magical Germany hadn't followed its counterpart in its move towards unification in the 19th century. It was this divisiveness that ultimately allowed Grindlewald to rise to power as he took advantage of the traditional rivalries between the different states to conquer them one by one.

The head Black family wasn't visibly moved by this little speech. 'Edward, being the son of a squib and a mudblood is no real improvement. We'll have to come up with something else.'

'Ah, but there is one saving grace that always trumps birth: power.' Edward held his index finger aloft to emphasise his point, 'with no trace of arrogance I'm one of the most powerful wizards since Dumbledore, if not Merlin himself. I'm sure Healer Abbott will see fit to quietly inform you as you leave that the routine scan of my magical core revealed that I score off the charts.'

Arcturus' countenance turned calculating as he considered this, 'That might be what convinces the family, if I bring you back into the fold under some conditions. You won't be granted any of the greater inheritance upon my death and kept on a small stipend as a tutor to Cygnus' and Orion's children. What are you academic strengths?'

'Well,' replied Edward, 'inheritance won't be a problem, as I brought a certain amount of gold and other supplies with me – I've found it never hurts to be prepared,' he said, referencing his trunk hidden in Augustus Bloom's house in Knockturn Alley. 'As to my academic strengths I excel in Duelling, Charms, Transfiguration and Ancient Runes.'

'Ah!' exclaimed Arcturus, 'that is fortuitous. Your 'aunt' Cassiopeia has been overseeing the children's tutoring up 'til now. She specialises in Potions, Arithmancy, and our family magic in particular, so between the two of you the children will likely be a credit to the family. When I return to the manor I'll start the process of bringing you back into the family.' He stood and banished his conjured chair. 'I think it's best if I leave you at this point; you can begin planning lessons whilst you finish your convalescence,' he said as he turned to leave. 'Goodbye, Edward.'

'Cheerio, Grandfather!' A slightly disgusted "Hmph" from Arcturus rewarded Edward. He really did have a problem with irreverence.

**Author's Note:**

I can't remember where I first saw the idea of folded wizard-space or pocket dimensions used in fanfiction, but the trunk used by Alastor 'Mad Eye' Moody in _Goblet of Fire_ uses something with at least a slight resemblance.

Before the 19th century and the industrial revolution and all it's consequences (which largely resulted in the county of Middlesex being swallowed by London), the area known today as the London Borough of Islington was an agricultural area servicing the city of London, largely due to the availability of water in the area. It also became a popular resort to Londoners seeking an escape from the city, resulting in a large number of public houses (pubs and inns) and pleasure gardens (where you could see plays and indulge in such pursuits as archery, skittles, bowling, dancing and balloon ascents). All that was largely overridden by the urban expansion of the industrial era.

As the city expanded the wizards of St. Mungo's would have been faced with the problem of how to comply with the Statute of Secrecy and keep their current set-up largely un-affected. The concept of 'folded' wizard-space would also explain how somewhere the size of Diagon Alley (and the sprawling slum of Knockturn Alley (which is a delightful play on the word nocturne – JKR shows a propensity towards puns that just fills me with happiness) in this story) remains hidden within the metropolitan bustle of inner London – and for that matter the subterranean sprawl of the Ministry itself.

I admit it; I'm a firm believer in Dorea and Charlus Potter being Harry's grandparents – regardless of what anyone might tell me to the contrary. I like the idea of James and Sirius being related, almost as much as I like the idea of Harry and Tonks being related. So Harry is Sirius' second cousin.

I want to state again just how rusty at this I am, something that should be obvious from the fact it took me around a month to write three thousand words. Be gentle with me, I'm fragile.

K. Thisp (Saturday 29th July, 2013)


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